


Maybe Croatia Wasn't All That Bad

by zelda_zee



Category: Burn Notice, Leverage
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-15
Updated: 2009-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelda_zee/pseuds/zelda_zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are just settling down again for Michael when he encounters an old 'friend'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe Croatia Wasn't All That Bad

_When you’re a spy, you need to be able to remember_ everything _\- faces, names, details that might seem unimportant at the time, but that could end up being the difference between a long, eventful life and a short, messy death. A good spy has an extensive database in his head that includes every encounter he’s ever had, with every contact, in every corner of the globe at any point in his career, cross-referenced and searchable by subject, name, date and keyword. Any time an operative is taken by surprise, he's at his most vulnerable, so you minimize that weakness, in any way that you can._

Michael reluctantly got up from the table on the restaurant’s deck and went inside to fetch the third round of mojitos that Sam and Fi had demanded – another job successfully resolved, another satisfied customer, and apparently that meant another bar tab with Michael’s name on it. It was worth it to have Sam and Fi watching his back, but still, Michael wondered if he’d ever manage to convince them that teamwork meant paying for your own drinks. Somehow, he doubted it.

He leaned against the bar, eyes sweeping left then right out of habit, and that’s when Michael caught sight of a familiar profile seated six barstools down. It was moments like this when that database in his head came in handy.

 _Croatia, ‘95_ , was what it spit out, followed by an alarmingly vivid visual of the man in question, naked and sprawled on his back, glaring up at Michael out of bright blue eyes and snarling, _Jesus, is that all you got? Make me_ feel _it, you goddamn pussy_.

It had not, in point of fact, been all that Michael had, and he had indeed made the man with the bright blue eyes _feel it_ , or at least he surmised he had from the way he’d cursed and babbled and howled and come all over himself and then laid there with a stupid, fucked-out grin on his face while Michael got dressed.

Ah, yes, Croatia. Good times.

Of course, they hadn’t got down to fucking until after they’d almost killed each other a few times. Michael would be the first to admit that spies had funny ideas when it came to foreplay.

Michael watched the guy from the corner of his eye as he waited for the bartender to take his order, and tried to come up with a name. The guy had been a lot younger then – well, they both had. He’d been just a kid, really – though Michael doubted he’d ever really had the luxury of youth. Didn’t seem likely, with him on his own in Croatia during the height of the fighting and somewhere under twenty, as far as Michael could figure.

 _Eliot_ , Michael remembered with sudden clarity. Eliot – if that had even been his real name. There’d been a last name – Davis? Both aliases, no doubt.

He’d been tough as nails even then, and not big on ideology, loyalty, morality, or legality. Michael had had him checked him out, of course, but Eliot hadn’t been in it for the politics. The kid was only there for the money and the mayhem, as far as Michael had been able to ascertain, his considerable talents for sale to the highest bidder. Not really a threat, except insofar as the guy was really fucking good at mayhem. Everywhere he went, trouble seemed to follow, and in a place where trouble was unremarkable, the kind of trouble Eliot made got remarked upon.

Eliot had been in Croatia to extract a certain Serbian operative, one who, as it happened, Michael was there to extract as well, though in a markedly different manner. That part hadn’t worked out so well for Eliot, but then Michael had fucked him within an inch of his life, so maybe the kid hadn’t come out of it so badly after all.

His hair was a lot longer now and he had a pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and he was bulkier, more thickly muscled than he had been the last time Michael had seen him. He looked relaxed, sitting at the bar with an untouched beer in front of him. Relaxed in a way that Michael recognized as dangerous, all his energy contained, banked down to a low simmer, just waiting for a spark.

Whatever the guy was doing in Miami, Michael had a feeling he was still in the game. And showing up here, at the bar where Michael just happened to be – well, Michael was many years and a lot of missions past believing in coincidence.

Michael waited, but Eliot didn’t make a move, didn’t so much as glance in his direction. He kept his eyes facing forward, gazing vaguely at his hands resting on the bar. A breeze blew in through the open windows, stirring his long hair. Michael’s fingers twitched, sense memory of it soft and thick in his hand as he pulled Eliot’s head back.

Damn it. Things had just settled down with Fiona, his mom had finally stopped taking jabs at him every chance she got about blowing up her house and at the moment there wasn’t, to his knowledge, anyone actively trying to either kill him, recruit him or use him to further their own mysterious yet undoubtedly evil ends. The last thing Michael needed was one of the biggest troublemakers he’d ever met turning up to complicate things, even if said troublemaker happened to be one of the hottest fucks of Michael’s life.

He played along, returned to the table with Sam and Fiona’s drinks, chatted amicably while they downed them and maybe even managed to not telegraph to the two people who knew him best that he was completely on edge.

_And that, boys and girls, is why spies make lousy friends and worse boyfriends. No matter how well you think you know them, they’ll still manage to successfully hide things from you. Important things. Things that you might even want to know._

Michael watched Sam and Fiona climb into Sam’s latest lady friend’s bright red convertible, smiled happily at them and waved as they drove off.

And then he waited.

Eliot took Fiona’s empty seat with an easy sigh, leaned back, propped his feet on the one where Sam had been sitting. He’d lost the glasses and close up Michael could see the years on him – and they'd not been the easiest years, Michael would guess. He watched Eliot scan the street and the beach on the other side of it, before he turned to Michael, apparently satisfied that no one suspicious was lurking nearby. The smile that lit up his face was like a punch in the gut.

“Michael Westen.” Eliot rolled the sound of his name around on his tongue, tasting it, seeing how it fit. “Long time, no see.”

“A very long time.” Michael kept his voice even, his face blank. He nodded. “Eliot.”

“Zagreb, wasn’t it?” Eliot tilted his head, watching Michael from under a strategic fall of hair. “I believe you took what was mine.”

So that’s how it was going to be, Michael thought, resigned. No beating around the bush. That was Eliot’s way, direct, economical, no fucking around. Michael had liked that about him, though at the moment he’d have appreciated a few minutes of small talk to give him time to get a sense of what Eliot might want from him.

But here it was already, cards on the table time, and they’d barely said hello. Eliot wanted payback. No surprise there.

Zagreb, fourteen years ago. The Regent Hotel. It had been night and rain had pattered against the window, providing a background percussion to the grunts and moans that filled the room as Michael had fucked Eliot within an inch of his life. Afterward Eliot had laid there on the rumpled bed with a stupid, trusting smile on his face and Michael had come back from the bathroom and handed him a glass of water that wasn’t just water. Eliot had fallen back onto the bed and blinked blearily at him and managed to slur that he was going to _kill you, you motherfucker, I’ll cut your fucking nuts off and –_ before, thankfully, he passed out.

A spy can’t afford guilt and they can’t afford second thoughts. Michael had done what he’d had to, what had been expected of him. He hadn’t regretted it, but that wasn’t the same as wishing that things could have been different.

What Eliot had no way of knowing was that Michael had leaned down and pressed a kiss to Eliot’s forehead and whispered, “Sorry, sweetheart,” before he left, not that it would have made a damn bit of difference.

Michael had collected the Serbian operative who was trussed up and stashed in Eliot's bathtub and disappeared with him and that had been the last time he’d laid eyes on Eliot.

“C’mon, Eliot. All’s fair in love and war.” Michael smirked. “You were young. It was a rookie mistake.”

Eliot leaned an elbow on the table, rested his head on his hand. “You’ve owed me one for a lot of years, Michael.”

Michael leaned back, playing at affronted. “Seemed like a pretty good trade to me, kid.”

Eliot grimaced, then he leaned in close, held Michael’s eyes in an intent glare. Michael had forgotten how those eyes that could almost twinkle at times would get cold as ice and deadly serious when something pissed Eliot off. It took a lot more than that to scare Michael, but still, he was impressed.

“ _That_ was not part of the deal, and you damn well know it,” Eliot hissed.

Michael said nothing, because although Eliot was absolutely right, he wasn’t going to concede the point so early in the game. Instead, he gave Eliot his best fake smile and asked, “So, what brings you to Miami, Eliot? You just in the mood to look up old friends?”

Eliot settled back, slouching into his seat, again taking on the appearance of relaxation. “I’m working a job here. We need someone with connections.”

“ _We?_ ”

“There’s a team – people I work with.”

Michael’s eyebrows shot up to about his hairline. Now, that was different. The Eliot Michael had known was the type who strictly flew solo.

“I thought you didn’t play well with others.”

Eliot shrugged and squinted out at the beach. “Turns out it depends on who the others are.” His lip quirked in a rueful smile that looked almost fond. “Anyway, none of them play well with others either.”

“That must make it interesting,”

Eliot pursed his lips, exhaled slowly. “You have _no_ idea.” He glanced sideways at Michael. “I’m working a different angle these days. It’s – complicated.”

“Eliot,” Michael said reluctantly, “I don’t know.” He stopped, trying to formulate the best way to refuse. “You and me, working the same job… It didn’t exactly turn out all that well for you last time, did it? I’m not sure we should go there.”

Eliot leaned forward, both elbows on the table, fixing Michael with a determined look that reminded Michael how much Eliot was like a fucking pit bull – when he made up his mind he clamped down and there was not a thing a thing you could do to pry him loose.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me, Michael. _You’ve owed me one for a lotta years._ The guys I was working for back then were _not_ forgiving about that Serb you took off of me. You want me to go into detail? It wasn’t pretty. I can show you the scars, if you wanna see.”

“Oh now you’re cheating,” Michael protested, imbuing his voice with as much sarcasm as he could. “Playing on my tender-heartedness. You know I’m a sucker for a sob story, Eliot.”

Which was true, actually. Michael _was_ a sucker for a sob story, as his current life attested to only too well, but there was no reason Eliot needed to know that.

Anyway, the fucker was probably lying.

Still, technically Eliot was right, not that Michael should let that sway him. He’d fucked Eliot in more ways than one back in Croatia. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to listen to what he had to say.

“All right,” he sighed. “Let’s hear it.”

*

Michael got in that night after an interminable dinner with his mother. It had been… dinner with his mother. Less said, the better.

It was odd that there was a little part of him that wasn’t surprised to find Eliot in his apartment. He squeezed his eyes shut for just a second, but when he opened them he was still there, lounging on Michael’s bed in beat-up jeans and a wife-beater, drinking Michael’s beer and reading Fiona’s back issues of Gun Digest and S.W.A.T.

“You broke in,” Michael said. “Breaking in is not okay.”

He stood, hands on his hips, glaring at Eliot, trying to convey his sense of deep personal violation and trying equally hard to conceal where his mind was going at the sight of Eliot’s bare arms and shoulders. Feet, too, Michael noted distractedly. Eliot was barefoot.

“Then maybe you should make it harder.” Which was typical Eliot-think. He’d never really caught on that maybe just because you _could_ do something didn’t mean that you _should_.

“I’ve got a top-of-the-line security system, Eliot.” Eliot snorted at that. “Booby traps.” Eliot rolled his eyes.

Eliot gave him a _look_ and spoke very slowly, as if to someone woefully simple. “If you don’t want people to break in, then maybe you should make it harder to break in.”

Michael contemplated arguing, trying to gauge if it would do any good. Probably not, so instead went to get a beer out of the fridge.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Eliot commented conversationally.

“Thanks.”

“You don’t have a TV,” Eliot said. “What kind of Luddite doesn’t have a TV?”

“I don’t need –”

“And what’s with all the yogurt? You got a yogurt fetish or something?”

“It’s nutritious,” Michael said shortly. “Those yogurts are booby-trapped, you know.”

Eliot held up the booby-trapped yogurt (peach, because neither he nor Sam nor Fi liked peach, so they wouldn’t forget and try to eat it by mistake) and waved it tauntingly at him.

Michael sighed. “What are you doing here, Eliot?”

Eliot didn’t say anything for a long minute, then he shoved the magazines onto the floor, set his beer down beside them and rolled fluidly up to a sitting position at the end of the bed. “C’mere, and I’ll show you” he said, husky Southern drawl kicking up dust like a Harley on a Kentucky dirt road.

“Okay,” Michael said, sounding like an idiot, but completely side-swiped by the look in Eliot’s eyes and by the heat that rolled through his belly and kept going right on downwards.

He stood looking down at Eliot, waiting to see what would happen next.

“I’m not here on business,” Eliot said, holding Michael’s eyes. “This is personal.” He ran his hands up Michael’s thighs, rubbing over his dick, then got busy unbuckling and unzipping.

“Glad to hear it,” Michael managed. “’Cause if _this_ was your business, I’d have to – _oh_ ,” as Eliot took Michael’s cock into his mouth and suckled softly, his tongue tracing wicked patterns over it. “I’d have to w-wonder about those people you’re working for.”

Eliot drew back, licking his lips and Michael’s hands went to his hair, fingers burying themselves in it, but he did _not_ drag Eliot back onto his dick. He did not, because Michael had better manners than that.

“With,” Eliot said.

“What?” Michael said, sounding pitifully desperate.

“People I’m working _with_ ,” Eliot clarified. “I don’t work _for_ anybody anymore.”

“Point taken,” Michael said. “Will you please just suck my dick now?”

Eliot grinned up at him and it kind of took Michael’s breath away. His tongue swiped filthily over the head of Michael’s cock and Michael’s hands dug into Eliot’s hair and he definitely did not shudder as Eliot took him in deep, hollowed his cheeks and sucked for all he was worth.

“Oh, _fuckyes_ ,” Michael groaned.

Eliot chuckled around Michael’s cock and that made Michael’s hips jerk helplessly forward and his eyes roll back in his head. Eliot's mouth was something special, something maybe kind of heavenly. He'd sucked cock like a pro back when Michael had first met him and he certainly hadn't lost ground in the intervening years. Michael's knees were shaking, on the verge of giving out, when Eliot drew back with a slurpy pop. Michael gasped, so rudely returned to the here and now, wondering if bribery might get Eliot's mouth back where he wanted it.

Eliot scooted back on the bed, stripped off his t-shirt and his jeans and he was naked before Michael had really even caught up with him. He sprawled on the bed, hand around his dick, lazily jerking himself while Michael watched.

“You gonna fuck me, or what?”

Michael grinned. “Oh, I’m gonna fuck you,” he promised. “I am definitely gonna fuck you.”

He stripped off his clothes in record time, grabbed the lube and condoms from the table next to the bed and crawled up between Eliot’s legs, sitting back on his heels and taking a minute to note the changes since he'd last seen Eliot like this. A lot more muscle and a lot more scars, some of them pretty nasty-looking and Michael reconsidered his assumption that Eliot had been lying about his Serbian employer’s wrath back in ’95. He didn’t ask though. Maybe later, not now.

“What?” Eliot said, coming up on one elbow.

“Can’t I look?” Michael reached out and ran a hand up Eliot's thigh, over his hip. “Since when are you shy?”

Eliot sat up on his knees and leaned in, licking a stripe along Michael’s jaw. “I’m not shy,” he rasped into Michael’s ear. “I’m impatient.” He picked up the lube and squirted a hefty dollop onto his fingers, reached behind and sank down onto them with a groan. Michael smiled because, hell, if there was one thing in this world worth smiling at it was the sight of a gorgeous, horny guy fucking himself open for you on his own fingers.

He rolled on a condom, slicked himself up, shoved Eliot onto his back and crawled on top of him. Eliot spread wide and tipped his hips up and was generally as accommodating as he could be about getting Michael's dick up his ass as quickly as possible.

He was hot and tight and he moaned real pretty when Michael pushed in deep. Michael tried to go slow, tried to give Eliot a minute or two, but Eliot just grabbed his ass and pulled him in with as much force as he could.

“C’mon, harder,” Eliot demanded, wriggling around underneath him, and Michael was hit with a disorienting wave of déjà vu. “I want more. Make me take it, you sonovabitch.”

“I’ll make you take it,” Michael growled, slinging Eliot’s legs over his shoulders, leaning his weight on the backs of Eliot’s thighs and sinking in - _oh fuck_ \- deeper. They both moaned, and then again as Michael flexed his hips, pressing in slow, and it was good, it was so fucking good that he was _shaking_. He hovered right above Eliot’s flushed face, his open, panting mouth, his unfocused eyes – Eliot looked totally debauched and it was the hottest thing Michael had seen in a long time. He picked up the pace, thrusting quicker, harder and Eliot squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in harsh, uneven pants.

Michael shifted his hips forward and a noise escaped Eliot, a bitten-off cry like an animal in pain.

“Is that good?” Michael asked. “You like that?”

“Fuck you,” Eliot whispered, but the moan that escaped when Michael did it again was enough of an answer.

“Yeah,” Michael said. “You like it.”

Eliot braced his hands against the wall and pushed against him, as much as he could, which was not a lot. Michael had him damn well pinned, and as long as he wanted Michael’s dick in his ass there wasn’t a lot he could do about it other than lay there and take it just like he’d wanted.

Eliot was mouthy when he getting fucked, a litany of filth and exhortation and insults falling from his lips. Michael thought it would almost be funny, if it wasn’t also so damn hot.

“You fucking fucker – yeah – make me – oh fuck – harder or I’ll kick your ass – oh there yeah, right there – Jesus, yeah – I want it – fuck me, you goddamn cocksucker –”

Michael gave it to him good then, hard and fast and not sparing a thought to whether he was being too rough. He didn’t think it was possible to be too rough with Eliot – anything he did, Eliot just wanted more. He was greedy and insatiable and demanding and fucking him was every bit as good as Michael remembered.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Eliot gasped. He groaned and tensed, trying to move, but not able to. He repositioned his hands against the wall, fumbled one down to wrap around his cock and jerked himself desperately and Michael lost his breath, watching him. It took only a few strokes and Eliot was coming with a loud series of sharp shouts, spurts of wetness hitting Michael’s stomach and chest, Eliot’s ass clamping around his dick, tight as a fist. Michael whimpered, tucked his head down and let go, jolting Eliot’s body with every thrust, slamming him into the mattress and Eliot just moaned _yeahyeahyeah_.

Michael’s orgasm ripped through him, unexpectedly ferocious pleasure that cut deep and wide, left him shuddering, blind and helpless, teeth digging into Eliot’s shoulder as the aftershocks jolted him.

“Holy fuck,” Eliot sighed, then laughed weakly.

Michael forced himself to focus, carefully disengaging, gently lowering Eliot’s legs down to the bed. He was still trying to catch his breath as he knelt up and tied off the condom, tossing it in the trash. He flopped down on the bed beside Eliot, exhausted.

“Did I wear you out, old man?” Eliot asked, a smile in his voice.

Michael turned to look at him. “Yep,” he said, not to proud to admit it. He was wiped. He belatedly realized he was spattered with come and he ineffectively wiped at himself with a sheet, then he realized Eliot was even more spattered, so he wiped at him, just as ineffectively.

When he was done he looked up to find Eliot watching him with a strange expression on his face and before he could ask what the matter was, Eliot surged up to kiss him. For a second, Michael stiffened in surprise. Not that he had anything against kissing men, it just wasn’t something that he and Eliot had ever done. But Eliot’s mouth was hot and wet and his lips were full and soft and his tongue was aggressive, pushing into Michael’s mouth and making him groan. Eliot kissed the way he fought and the way he fucked, with certainty and passion and a wild kind of joy, and Michael, whose every move was careful and precise, found it completely irresistible.

“Time to go,” Eliot said when he drew back.

Michael put his hand in the center of Eliot’s chest and pushed him back. “Stay.”

Eliot looked at him doubtfully. “You sure?”

“I’ll wake you up with my mouth around your dick,” Michael offered. Eliot looked a lot more interested suddenly. “And I’ll let you have _two_ yogurts for breakfast.”

“Two?” Eliot sounded impressed. “Jeez, Michael, how could I refuse?”

“I’m a real sweet-talker, ain’t I?”

“Ain’t you just.”

Michael got up, checked the alarm, shut off the lights. Eliot rolled against him when he crawled under the covers, warm and heavy-limbed.

“So, we’re going to work a job together. Again,” Michael said, jostling Eliot as he tried to get comfortable. Eliot just grunted, not opening his eyes. “Have I told you that you’re a very trusting soul, Eliot?”

Eliot’s eyes slitted open. “I was a trusting soul once, Michael,” he said, far too seriously for Michael’s peace of mind. “You helped take care of that.”

Michael swallowed. “Eliot,” he said. “I –”

“You double-cross me on this one and, I swear, I _will_ kill you,” Eliot promised, and then he yawned and snuggled closer, and Michael thought, not for the first time, that the life of a spy made for some very strange pillow talk.

“You know,” Eliot mumbled into Michael’s shoulder. “Croatia wasn’t all bad. It had its good points.”

“You think?” Michael asked, but Eliot’s snore was the only reply.


End file.
